


we can be beautiful

by flowersinxeirhair



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, and a bit of me thinkin im funny, this is p much all angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersinxeirhair/pseuds/flowersinxeirhair
Summary: grantaire moves from the city to the suburbs. it's a big adjustment





	

**Author's Note:**

> ok ive always had this weird fascination w the american suburbian life u see on tv and shit ???? so l wanted to do a thing from the perspective of a poor british fuck lmao
> 
> also to ppl asking for updates on the other things ive started UM SORRY CANT HEAR YOU HERES THE START OF ANOTHER MULTICHAP

Grantaire wondered to himself exactly how rude would it be considered to beat off the middle-aged stay-at-home dads in sweaters vests with a large branch.

“No, Mr Grayson, I don’t have a girlfriend back home, no,” Grantaire answered for the millionth time with a smile that was starting to look like more a grimace.

Mr Grayson had spinach in his teeth and a haircut that belonged approximately a thousand feet away from Grantaire.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll have that sorted for you in no time!” Grantaire didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t rolling his eyes. Mr Grayson either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “The Fauchelevents have a lovely daughter who’s just in the year below you, whereabouts is she…”

Grantaire took that as his cue to duck out of the conversation while his new neighbour was distracted.

He ducked behind a tree, and laughed quietly, because Jesus Christ, who the hell had trees in their front garden? Who even had a bloody front garden? Oh, wait, he realised, fucking _everyone in the suburbs_.

God, everything here was so big. Their new house was probably big enough to home a small country, R couldn’t believe it was only intended for the two of them. For the love of God, they had a _breakfast bar._ What the hell was wrong with eating cereal off your knees like everyone else on the planet?

And his room, fucking hell. It was just more places that weren’t his wardrobe for him to leave his clothes. Still, he didn’t leave those four walls if he had the choice. Avoiding the people, avoiding his parents, avoiding responsibility, smoking, sketching, hiding.

Most days, he ended up turning his music up to ridiculous volumes just to fill the room. This usually ended in him lying on the bed singing loudly and half-heartedly playing air-drums. He refused to feel guilty about it until the neighbours came to complain. And then his mother would get pissy because “We’ve barely been here a week and we’re already in people’s bad books, young man, we are not doing this again here!” and Grantaire wouldn’t care because he was still buzzing from the music.

He was starting to feel sick. He’d never expected to miss the city quite as much as he did, especially right at that moment. The people here were far too... alert. Nosy, or something. Everyone seemed to actually give a shit. Or at least, if they didn’t, they were crazy good at faking interest. He missed city people, people who were always too busy to talk to you, people who wouldn’t even apologise if you brushed past them in the street instead of striking up an hour-long conversation. He missed the people most of all.

Alright, he missed certain people.

As much as his parents complained that he hadn’t had any friends back in Paris, and Grantaire hadn’t bothered to argue against them, what he missed most about the city were the three delinquents he’d left behind.

As he leaned back against the tree trunk, he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his frayed, paint-splattered jeans and was dialling Jehan’s number before he lost himself at this bloody barbeque. They always managed to keep him sane.

He barely even had the phone to his ear when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Ohhhh my God,” he groaned, not bothering to turn around and only moving the phone an inch away from his ear, “Yes, I’m the new kid, no, I do not have a girlfriend, I’m going to the whichever high school is nearest and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing after school, no, I do not want to see pictures of your children.”

There was a long pause, during which Grantaire barely allowed himself to hope that whoever it was had actually pissed off.

“Wow,” a prim voice drawled a moment later.

Grantaire turned around to face whoever it was.

And whoever it was definitely was not a soccer mom, or some sexually repressed father of three from the country club.

He wasn’t sure whether or not the boy was actually lit from behind, or if he emanated light naturally. His hair was almost golden at the edges, tied back with a red ribbon into a ponytail draped casually over one shoulder, in a way that said “oh it was just in my way, I didn’t spend hours curling ringlets into this, it does that naturally”. And his crisp white button-down not only made Grantaire feel terribly underdressed in his ratty green hoodie that he’d thrown over a t-shirt for a band he’d never even heard of (it was likely to be something of Eponine’s that had gotten mixed in his stuff in packing), but also had been rolled up to his elbows to reveal forearms that made Grantaire slightly breathless. Grantaire refused to dwell too long on the boy’s jeans. Those fucking jeans.

“Did you want something?” Grantaire asked, in place of _holy shit._

“A civil conversation,” the boy replied, crossing his arms over his chest, “But apparently that’s not an option.”

It was a challenge; one that Grantaire refused to rise to.

“Well, do people regularly hide behind trees and make phone calls as a way to open up conversation?” he asked, because he truly did want to talk to his friends, even more so now.

The boy scowled. “It’s quite rude of you to make a phone call at a barbeque being held in your honour.”

“I don’t think whichever obnoxious family’s hosting this shitfest is going to care if I disappear for ten minutes,” Grantaire sighed.

The edges of the boy’s frown tightened. “You mean my parents?”

Grantaire froze.

Shit.

“You’re Julien.”

“I prefer Enjolras.”

Buggering _shit_.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, neighbour. I’m sure you have a very important phone call to attend to,” and with that, he’s gone. Stalking off into the garden like fucking Zeus, arms swaying at his sides and curls fluttering in the breeze.

Grantaire was absolutely right. Life in suburbia was going to be dreadful.

 

 

 

The dining room was silent but for the scrape of cutlery against ceramics.

Helene looked up at her son, her lips pursed in irritation. “It was very lovely of the Fauchelevents to make us this casserole,” she spoke calmly, breaking the silence.

Grantaire said nothing, poking at the food with the wrong end of his fork.

“I’ve heard lovely things about Monsieur Valjean’s daughter. Did you know he’s the principle of your new school?”

Grantaire drew the metal against his plate with a painful screeching sound. Helene winced.

“It’s meant to be lovely there. The art department’s far better than the one back home- Grantaire, what are you--”

Grantaire pushed himself out of his chair, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor uncomfortably, his fork clattering as it fell to the table.

“Grantaire,” Helene called, breathing in long and slow.

He walked past the table quietly.

“Gran _taire_ ,” she tried again, but the door to his room was already shut.

She sighed, and stood up to clear their plates. He would come around, eventually. He just needed a little time to adjust. Moving was always hard on the both of them, but she had the strongest feeling that here was good. Here was safe. They’d gone far enough this time, she’d spent every last penny she had on a nice house, a nice school for her boy, she’d got herself a good, stable job that she could keep up with. Her hands hardly shook at all as she rinsed their plates under the hot tap. Things were good here. They were finally safe.

Grantaire fell back on his bed, his phone across the room in more pieces than was good for it and his wardrobe and knuckles both sufficiently damaged.

He should likely dress his knuckles, or at least wash them. He couldn’t even find the energy in him to open his eyes. His knuckles could wait.

He’d fix the drawers in the morning. He’d apologise to his mother and stop taking his anger out on things that didn’t deserve it and wouldn’t fight back. He was being unreasonable and he knew it, he was being all too similar to his father and it made him ache. He was determined to do better. But for tonight, he would allow himself to wallow.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his friends, about Jehan and their nimble fingers, about Eponine and her gruff voice, about Montparnasse and his easy smirk.

He missed them, and worried that they didn’t miss him in return. He pressed his face into his pillow, trying not to think of the three of them crowded together in the skate park, sharing a spliff, having completely forgotten about Grantaire after less than a week.

He knew the city hadn’t been the best for them. He knew they were in danger. He knew he was slipping into dangerous territory there, he knew it all, he’d heard it all, but he still didn’t miss it any less.  It was a way of life. It was _his_ way of life. And he was suddenly expected to drop it all and eat casserole from his high school principle.

Do they even have dealers in suburbia?

He groaned into the mattress, pulling the pillow out from under him and throwing it across the room. He was never going to blend in here, he might as well stay in this room for the rest of his life for all the good it would do him.

But if Helene could do this, so could he. He could do it for her, if nothing else. She was so strong. So much stronger than Grantaire. But if he had inherited even a fraction of his mother’s strength, that was more than enough to make it in suburbia.

One night of wallowing. Then he was getting on track.

 

 

 

Helene woke to a clean kitchen and a cooked breakfast. She frowned.

“Taire, sweetheart? Are you okay?” she called as she padded through to the living room in her bare feet.

He poked his head around the kitchen doorway, face pink from the shower and damp curls sticking to his neck. “Morning, Helene. Breakfast’s on the bar. The breakfast bar, which is a thing that exists. Yours is the one with mushrooms.”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, eyeing the food.

“Nothing,” Grantaire chirped, scrubbing a towel through his hair.

“Okay, do you want money?” she called, sitting down atop a stool and pulling the plate towards her.

“I want,” Grantaire replied, tossing the towel down across the black marble island-top, “to apologise. I know you’re trying really hard, and I’m being an asshole. I’m sorry. Please accept the bacon as a peace offering.”

Helene eyed her son from head to toe, taking in his sheepish smile, his paint-spattered jeans and his one nice hoodie, Parnasse’s old leather jacket thrown over one shoulder. She sighed, spearing a forkful of bacon and egg. God bless him.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You didn’t have to,” she sighed, and took a bite. “But the bacon is very good.”

Grantaire’s answering smile was blinding, and Helene had to hide her own in another forkful of food.

He plonked himself in the stool beside her, drumming his fingers against the edge of the bar, his foot tapping against the stool leg rhythmically.

Helene swallowed slowly, considering.

“You know,” she begins, glancing sidelong at her son, “Give it a few months, and we might be able to finally afford real guitar lessons.”

Grantaire’s head snapped about to meet her gaze, his mouth falling open.

“Maybe even a new guitar. Something with less dents in, maybe one of those Fenders you’re always eyeing--”

She was cut off by arms around her, the fork dropping from her hand at the impact. She sighed, and wound her arms around Grantaire, petting his dark curls tenderly.

“This is going to be good for us, Taire,” she murmured into his jacket.

She felt him nod in response, his fingers tightening in her dressing gown.

“Yeah,” he replied, barely audible. “It’s gonna be good.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from beautiful from heathers which is v possibly my fav musical ever and i think relates to everyones high school experience


End file.
